


steal my blood and steal my heart

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Menstrual Sex, Oral Sex, girl!tbear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 02:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18540010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Objectively, it’s fucking gross. It’s unsanitary. She shouldn’t let him.





	steal my blood and steal my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lotts (LottieAnna)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/gifts).



> un-betad, because hell is real and we are in it. love u, bud. 
> 
> i used a lyric from bitch by allie x as the title cause if i don't i never will. 
> 
> if you or anyone you know is mentioned here, please, for the love of god, turn around now. if you are a germaphobe/clean freak or have period-related dysphoria, you might want to skip this one.

On top of a brutal practice, because the world hates her, actually, Tyson Barrie gets her period.

 

Honestly, the bag skating is the worst part of this. Like, sure, she’ll be tired and insurmountably horny in a way that she can do nothing about, but at the end of the day, the bleeding is – pretty usual.

 

As expected, when she rolls out of bed for morning skate, Tyson can barely walk without whimpering. Her quads fucking hurt, tight like those stupid broccoli rubber bands, achey in a way that really doesn’t compliment the vague suggestion of cramping she woke up with.

 

The day as a whole turns out fine. She skates, she gets the massage therapists to press out the knots in her legs until she’s making what are probably the weirdest noises any human being can make. Then she has lunch, naps, heads to the arena, all par for the course.

 

The problem is that every time she winces during warm-up soccer, Josty’s eyes are on her like lasers. He probably wants to fix it, or at least fuck it better. Which would be great, except– well. The entire “having a ‘regularly functioning’ AFAB body” thing.

 

She figures she’ll wait him out, play well enough that he doesn’t worry. To hold up her end of the hypothetical bargain, she has a just-above-average game. And for the most part, to anyone who isn’t looking, Josty doesn’t seem more attached to her than usual.

 

Tyson is no fool. She knows better.

 

 

+

 

Because he has no sense of fear and no attachment to the whole cleanliness-is-close-to-godliness thing, Josty follows Tyson out to her car after the game anyway, even after she’s told him what’s up.

 

He looks determined, in a way he usually doesn’t. 

 

Tyson kind of wants to see how far that goes.

 

(Within reason, of course.)

 

+

 

Two bottles of Gatorade and an hour of HGTV later, Tyson is ready to curl up with her heating pad.

 

Josty, if the way he’s hesitantly reaching for her ass is anything to go by, still has other ideas.

 

On one hand, Tyson feels gross – sore from the game, crampy, bone-deep tired.

 

On the other hand–

 

“I mean, you don’t have to,” Tyson says, but Josty’s already pushing a towel under her hips, and, like, she’s not going to say no, if he’s offering.

 

“I’ve uh,” Josty says, and doesn’t meet Tyson’s eyes. Hm. “Been curious?”

 

Tyson wants to ask him about it, wants to push the subject so badly. But she figures she shouldn’t look a gift rookie in the mouth, especially not when that mouth is about to be on her cunt – her sore, a little swollen, and oversensitive cunt.

 

Objectively, it’s fucking gross. It’s unsanitary. She shouldn’t let him.

 

But also, like, they haven’t gotten to fuck the past few days between scheduling and Tyson’s PMS. It’s kinda a hump to get over, no pun intended; she doesn’t want to get fucked for a few days, and then, all at once, she needs it in this deep, achey way that she’s very much not proud of.

 

“I’ve done this before,” Josty says, mostly to himself as he pulls Tyson’s worn-out cotton panties down her thighs, pad and all. Her second day is typically still a bit heavy, and this is no different, fine, rust-red blood all over the center panel though it’s only been an hour since they got home. He settles his hands warmly across her hips. “It’s just a little different, right?”

 

Tyson tangles a hand in his curls. “Seriously. I won’t be mad if you don’t want–“

 

Josty ducks his head and noses at her center, breathing her in, and Tyson almost fucking shouts. It isn’t supposed to feel this good. Is it?

 

“Oh,” Josty breathes, pulling back to look at her. There’s a smudge of blood across his nose and cheeks. Tyson’s pulse fucking doubles at how out of it he looks already. “You smell good,” he admits, quiet. Tyson does let herself make a noise at that, a quiet, desperate whine.

 

When he dips back down again, kissing her labia before diving in to give her a broad, indulgent lick, Tyson has to fight not to cry from how good it feels already. She barely has time to catch her breath before Josty starts going to work, eager like he always is. 

 

He’s impatient tonight, tracing patterns up and down her slit until she’s writhing, gently sucking her clit until she bucks her hips up into his face. He presses his hands into her thighs, holding her down. “Dude,” he deadpans, but he’s breathless, streaks of blood across his chin and jaw and mouth. “You gotta not break my nose, fuck.”

 

“I’m _trying_ ,” she close to whines, and he scoffs, rolling his eyes before kissing the inside of her thighs again. There’s going to be dried blood everywhere once he’s done. Tyson cannot find it within herself to care.

 

“Try harder,” Josty says, laughing a little. He exhales wide and warm before licking into Tyson’s cunt again. Tyson reaches for the pillows above her head and wills herself to keep her hips in one place. 

 

Tyson’s not a super heavy bleeder, never has been. Perks of being super active, or just good genetics, she’ll never know. But like, as disgusting as it is, she kind of wishes she _was_ , mostly because she knows Josty won’t stay absolutely debauched, covered in her blood, for too long. 

 

He starts up a rhythm over her clit, lapping his tongue gently without much preamble – god, he learns fast – and she pulls him back, a wave of overwhelming intensity shocking through her belly. “Wait,” she says, oversensitive, and he obeys, moves back just enough that he can fucking _lick his lips_.

 

Someone makes an embarrassing squeaking noise as Josty's tongue darts out to taste again, and Tyson realizes it’s her. 

 

When he looks up at her, breathign shallowly, it looks like he’s been in a fistfight for one of their rat-ass teammates' “honor”, or maybe kissed a guy who took a puck to the face. There’s blood below his nose, bright crimson, as if his nose is broken. More filmy reddish-brown rings around his lips and jowls and chin. 

 

His eyes are glassy, a perfect mix of want and shame playing out over his face.

 

“Uh,” Tyson manages, mouth dry, and Josty snaps his head up to meet her gaze. “Fuck, uh – how do I–“

 

“You taste like – god, I don’t even know. The stick cut I got from Z, but also, just more like, you. Not regular blood? Jesus. Fuck. Uh, sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Tyson whispers, carding her fingers through his hair. He leans into the touch, and she wipes some blood from his bottom lip, feels her stomach light up with arousal when he captures her finger to suck it clean. 

 

She doesn’t even have to push for him to get back to it. He’s gentler, this time, broader licks, and she has just enough sense to coax him towards what she needs before he’s going just a little faster, keeping his pressure the same, and she’s so goddamn close, she can feel it aching in her calves.

 

“Josty,” she says, and he looks up, but doesn’t stop. Fuck, he’s good. He can probably see the depths of her soul, how fucking terrified she is at how hot she finds this entire thing. “Close,” she manages, in favor of a full sentence, and then squeezes her eyes shut.

 

Josty runs his hands up her thighs, squeezing hard with his huge fingers, pressing right into where she’s sore. She moans, shameless, and he kneads the muscle closer to her hip, the part that still feels horrid even after having a masseuse pay close attention to it. When she manages to open her eyes for a moment, Josty looks lost in the sensation of her body under his hands. His eyes are closed, mouth still working eagerly, palms warm against her skin. He’s – sweet.

 

Tyson’s orgasm hits her off-guard, a bittersweet peak that feels more like release than euphoria.

 

Her breath is still short when she comes down enough to see Tyson with his face hidden in the crook of her hip, left shoulder bobbing unmistakably as he jacks himself off. His noises are quiet enough that she really has to listen for them, but they’re these little broken whines, short gasps as he grinds down against the bed.

 

“Babe,” she says, quietly, and he looks up at her. The filmy residue from a few moments ago is mixed with the shiny slick of her arousal, now, and he’s wrecked, cheeks pink even against the darker hues of blood on his face. 

 

“Please,” he breathes, and Tyson cannot hold herself back any longer.

 

“Good boy,” she soothes, stroking his hair. Her voice almost doesn’t sound like her own. “God, look at you. You’re such a fucking mess.”

 

Josty chokes on a sound, closing his eyes, and goes still as he comes. Tyson pets his hair, smooths her thumb over his browbone as he works himself through it. 

 

There’s a long moment of silence as they both breathe into the air of the room.

 

“I’m gonna–“ Josty starts, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. “Uh, yeah. Give me a sec.”

 

“There’s mouthwash in the cabinet,” Tyson responds, slow and measured. Josty looks a little skitterish. Tyson wants him to stay.

 

He nods, flicking on the light. After a moment of consideration, Tyson swings her legs over the side of the bed, keeping the towel underneath her hips. She pads slowly over to the bathroom, squeezing Josty’s hip as she passes behind him. He smiles, a little bashful.

 

“Hey,” she starts as he passes her a washcloth. “Thanks.”

 

“Yeah,” Josty says, before grabbing a paper cup. She watches him gargle some unnaturally blue Listerine as she wets the washcloth, wiping the insides of her thighs down. “Uh, thanks for letting me?”

 

She watches as he runs the water, washing the last of the toothpaste and mouthwash down the drain before meeting her eyes again.

 

“It was all you,” she says, kissing his forehead, and he pulls her close, hip-to-hip, burying his face in her shoulder and stealing her breath away with how tight he’s holding onto her. 

 

“We don’t have to talk about it, yeah?” Josty asks, muffled, and Tyson runs her fingers down his back.

 

“God, no,” she says, and he exhales, relaxing. “What kind of hypocrite would that make me?"


End file.
